


just two bodies

by Amber



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Elias Bouchard, Consensual Kink, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Face Slapping, Feigned Reluctance, Kneeling, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Watersports, piss drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 12:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19701148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: Peter would like a little more gratitude, all things considered. PWP.





	just two bodies

"I think I did quite well, don't you?" Peter asks cheerfully. His accent's a little thicker since he visited Moorland, after the sea and the institute had softened the Scottish phlegm of it. Elias always found it a good tell for how dangerous Peter was at any given time, a way to measure his zealous loyalty to the Lonely as it waxed and waned.

"Half of my Institute will need to be rebuilt," Elias says coolly, staring at him. "One of my most interesting assistants is defecting. You severed ties with our sister institution for no particularly good reason. And you appear to have given my computer several viruses, one of which has corrupted this year's budget spreadsheet." This last being the most heinous crime of all.

"Yeah," says Peter unrepentantly, "But your Archivist is doing great, and isn't that what's important?" He gives a half-grin and reaches out to squeeze Elias' shoulder chummily. His touch awakens a familiar churning, one Elias ignores.

"Perhaps," he says, not willing to concede that Jon's development has been wonderful — certainly not willing to attribute that to anything _Peter Lukas_ did. 

"Come on Elias," Peter says. "You've got backups of the computer stuff — and I know you didn't really like Martin Blackwood enough to miss him. And my family will cover repair costs. Picking through a few piles of rubble is a small price to pay to stop the emergence of a new power."

"So you say," Elias says stiffly, and Peter's hand slides up over the fabric of his suit to the bare skin of his neck and squeezes there, his fingers clammy-cold. Elias' eyes narrow like an annoyed cat but he doesn't pull away from Peter's over-familiar touch. He can feel his icy refusal to give an inch thawing a little, and he hates that Peter still has that effect on him. That when the man steps in a little closer, Elias leans imperceptibly towards him, like a plant sensing the sun. Stupid. Peter has never had more than snatches of warmth in him.

"No. I did really well," says Peter, unwavering confidence, "And you're very grateful." A beat, as he looks at Elias' implacable expression. "I'm going to need you to say it, Elias," he prompts.

Ah. This old game. Elias feels heat rising to the back of his neck despite himself. "You know I don't lie," he says, lifting his chin a touch to give Peter better access to his throat.

Peter smiles, and there's nothing pleasant in it. His hand shifts and closes right where Elias wants it, big and pressing over his artery to make him dizzy, his windpipe to make his chest tighten with fear as he struggles suddenly to draw breath. Peter lifts him off his feet by the throat, and Elias instinctively reaches up to grab his forearm, but it's not a wrenching grip, and he doesn't struggle, his whole body hanging limp as a marionette beneath Peter's broad hand. And Peter holds him there like he's weightless, the only sign of effort the flex of his bicep straining his expensive shirt.

"Elias," he says, still smiling. "I did you a favour, and I did it to the best of my ability. Nearly a full year inland, working in an office, for a god that isn't my own. Not an effort I'd go to for most people, yeah?" He watches Elias struggle to remain calm and keep breathing with some amusement at first, but then it fades and he loses interest, dropping him. The impact of the floor under his feet is sharp up his spine and Elias stumbles but stays standing, doesn't close his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. Braced for whatever comes next — fortunate, because Peter casually backhands him, a ringing blow.

"Knees," he instructs, and Elias regains his balance, fingers touching his jaw testingly, and doesn't kneel.

Peter laughs. "Aw, you should see your face right now. Cooking up murder in that pretty little head of yours, Elias? Cute. Now kneel."

This time the instruction comes with physical assistance, and Elias, refusing to fight back, has no choice but to go to his knees on the plush carpet of his living room. "Last chance for manners," Peter says, hand in his hair and the other at his belt. Apparently willing to accept other forms of recompense. That's fine, Elias would much rather suck cock than tell Peter Lukas he did a good job.

It's been some time since Elias has seen the cock, and while he hadn't forgotten Peter was sizable, the little details had faded from his memory. Such as the way he has to stretch his mouth open even while it's soft, and the way it was always a little cool no matter how hard Peter got, and the stringent salt taste of the slit. He allows Peter to rest in his mouth, looks up to see his satisfied smile.

"Very nice," he says, hand still holding Elias' head in place as he just holds the dick in his mouth and tries not to drool around it. He's expecting Peter to move, but he doesn't. An impatient little suck makes Peter laugh, his cock twitching, but he still doesn't do more than just stand there watching Elias adjust to the intrusion, throat bobbing. 

And then he lets out a deep, chesty sigh like he's already come, and Elias barely has a second to be confused before the first spurt of urine washes over his tongue.

His eyes flare wide, surprise loud and unfamiliar. Typically he considers Peter predictable: Elias can't read an Avatar's mind, of course, but he's known Peter for long enough and intimately enough that he can still make calculated assumptions about what he will do. That refusing to thank Peter has lead to a violent fuck was expected, perhaps even somewhat orchestrated. But this— 

Peter laughs low as he watches Elias splutter around the acrid liquid pouring into his mouth. "Weren't expecting that, were you, you smug bastard?" he taunts, and Elias can't respond because he's choking on piss. Coughs, tries to pull away but can't — tries to swallow it but can't really manage that either, there's too much, flooding his mouth, choking him, making him retch, getting up into his sinuses and down into his lungs, dripping out the sides of his mouth to stain his suit. Everything is burning, drowning, until Peter pulls him off and finishes in his hair, warm wet down the back of his neck and over his temples and eyelashes as Elias tries to remember how to breathe. 

When the stream trickles to a stop Peter gives a pleased grunt and lets Elias catch his breath a moment before he yanks Elias' head back, uses his lips and tongue to wipe up the last few drops clinging to his foreskin. Then he shakes for good measure, dick plumped up a little now. Apparently turned on by Elias knelt wet and degraded, panting so hard his whole body is shaking. Elias badly wants to close his eyes against the shame and disgust and arousal that are roiling in him, but he's never been one to look away, even if it means Peter can read him. The knowing goes both ways, after all. Whatever he sees makes Peter's smirk broader, and he gives a short little chuckle through his nose. Ruffles Elias' wet hair fondly, runs that same hand down to caress his cheek. Elias' lip curls, and Peter strokes the snarl of it with a thumb, though he draws it back before Elias can bite. 

"Good boy," he says, cheerfully patronizing. "Now, why don't you get out of those wet things." He nudges Elias with the tip of his shoe, and Elias shivers and measures the cost of compliance, whether there's a point to struggling. But his shirt is sticking unpleasantly to his back, so he lifts his hands and starts to undress.

"This suit is ruined," he rasps, snippily, as he shrugs out of the jacket and shirt.

"I'll buy you ten new ones," Peter says immediately, because he doesn't have any concept of moderation. "I'll reupholster your carpet, too. And the sofa."

"We haven't done anything to the sofa," Elias points out as he peels off his socks.

Peter bends down, and picks him up like it's nothing, making Elias squawk in outrage — now he does struggle, tries to wriggle away, but Peter just tosses him unceremoniously onto the sofa in question, manhandles him where he wants him. Elias is still drenched and disgusting, cheek smearing across the fabric, and yes, all right, Peter will be paying to reupholster this sofa. "Brute," he complains, and Peter just laughs some more. Tugs down Elias' briefs and trousers and smacks his revealed ass, playful but still painfully hard, jolting a low noise out of Elias.

"It delights me that you're still trying to pretend you don't enjoy this," Peter says, and then Elias feels a hand around his cock, stretching his erection back between his legs, the pain sweet and hot. "Feeling any more grateful yet?"

"I refuse to praise a bad job—" starts Elias, but interrupts himself with a startled moan as Peter spanks his dick, a sharp clap.

"Next time I'll have to make you hold my piss in your mouth so you can't talk back," he muses, and then he spits, once, and presses his barely slick cock into Elias.

It hurts. He isn't stretched or slick, and Peter is huge now that he's hard, could tear him up even prepared. Elias tries to relax and bear down but he feels the sharp sensation of something tearing, the ache of muscles forced open, the sick jab of a cock ramming into his guts. He claws at the sofa and cries out, then covers his own mouth before Peter can have the satisfaction of hearing him sob.

Peter spits again — that and the blood eases the way enough that the horrible pain ebbs to something more manageable as he starts to fuck Elias. Holds him in place with a bruising grip and uses his ass hard and fast.

"You do make a lovely little cocksleeve, Elias," he says, and Elias feels his own dick, softened briefly, leap to life even as the humiliation flares in him. "Have you let your Archivist do this yet? He hates you enough to treat you just the way you like."

"Jon would never," Elias informs him, though the words feel squeezed out of him. Even if he against all odds wanted to fuck Elias, it would never be like this. His Archivist has the capacity for such terrible sadism, but only as the voyeur. Jon would never fuck him like this — but he would watch, and imagining those piercing eyes on him, satisfied and disgusted all at once, has Elias rutting against the cushions.

Peter digs a knee in alongside him, still clothed, and stretched over Elias back, bites open-mouthed at his shoulderblades even though he surely still smells like a urinal. His thrusting is growing harder, erratically faster, sudden bursts of drilling into Elias that must coincide with his own pleasure starting to peak. If he has more to say, he's too breathless to really manage more than nasty little endearments that make Elias' toes curl.

He pulls out when he comes, and Elias can feel the hot splash of it up his back, even as Peter growls and sinks his teeth into Elias, clutching him back to his chest.

They stay like that for a moment, Elias suspended warm and held as Peter comes back to his senses. Then Peter slides a hand down between his legs and finds his cock. It's the gentlest he's been since they started this, just stroking Elias off with easy pulls. But Peter is always a little strange in the aftermath of orgasm, like some heavy monstrous shroud has pulled back, revealing a very human sort of vulnerability. Elias knows the Lonely doesn't look kindly upon the way sex can form a connection. It's why they never kiss.

The whole room seems to go silent and still as Peter jerks him off, all of their weight on Elias' forearms where they're pressed into the back of the sofa, his lips at the nape of Elias' neck, his big hand cradling Elias' cock. This, too, is a sort of surprise — he'd expected to have to beg for his release, bargain for it with all the accolades Peter has been demanding. Instead something unknots inside him and he just falls pleasantly over the edge, shaking in Peter's embrace, nothing in his mind but that distant, cosmic static.

It comes back almost immediately, of course: the Eye; the burden of knowledge he's blessed and cursed to bear; the eternal calculations he's doing in the background of every situation, every choice. The only times it ever leaves him are in the heady pleasures of murder and orgasm. Perhaps that's the momentary relief of his own monstrous shroud.

Peter drops him before their aftermath can become anything like cuddling, standing and stretching and yawning. Elias rolls inelegantly over to see him zipping up his flies, straightening his shirt — the asshole hadn't even gotten undressed. When he sees Elias looking he winks, cheeky and obnoxious. "Don't suppose I'll get a thank you for that, either," he remarks.

"You'll receive an invoice," says Elias flatly — or attempting flatly. There's something fond he can't quite get out of his tone. 

"Ah, there it is. I really missed you," Peter sighs happily, and it's flip but Elias suspects it's true — that maybe that was the emotion at the root of all this. But he can't know for sure, and with Peter's mind too deep in fog, and without his Archivist's talent to eviscerate out a story, he'll probably never know.

"Well!" Peter adds brightly. "I'm off. Family business, you know how it is. I'll see you around, Elias."

"Or I'll see you," says Elias, forcing himself to his feet even though he's an aching wet mess who just wants to relax in the bath for a bit. 

"Ominous!" Peter says approvingly. Pats Elias' cheek, patronizing, just once, and then heads on his way, whistling cheerfully as he leaves Elias' house. Pleased with himself, as always. Elias sighs, and gets ready to clean up Peter's mess.


End file.
